


Thanksgiving

by sardonicista



Category: Bleach
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicista/pseuds/sardonicista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some journeys are best measured in words, tokens, and time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Completed in 2012, also posted on ff.net and LiveJournal, uploaded here to see if I can get the hang of this website. Unbetaed; errors are mine, though the characters are not. Sniff.

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Most nights, he wandered aimlessly.

In his highly regimented life, such a natural and spontaneous thing was rare and treasured accordingly. It was for that reason that Kuchiki Byakuya took his nighttime walks, the weariness and frustration from the workday falling away in the few moments he could claim as his own.

This evening, however, was unusual, and he packed accordingly.

He slung a weathered pack over his shoulder, settling a flask before fastening the clasp over pliant leather. The Sixth Division taichou then reached past his haori, opting for a heavy cloak instead. The rough material slid hesitantly over the equally coarse fabric of his shihakushou, swaying as he turned and pulled up the hood.

Byakuya stepped carefully into the hallway, avoiding the rare squeaky floorboard while he dismissed the servants attending him with a whisper and a wave of his hand. After a quick nod to the guards flanking the outer gates, he turned in the opposite direction.

He followed the path by rote, any discernible route well obscured by the thick blanket of snow over the manicured grounds. The crypt’s marble face peered out from the powder with a fringe of ice, solemn and unblinking.

Likewise he stood straight and tall, letting a few formal phrases spill into the space between himself and his parents’ grave. In a low voice, he informed them of the recent events of the Kuchiki clan; marriages, births, deaths, promotions, the lines just penned in their extensive archives. Report complete, he bent to position and light an incense stick, its tiny porcelain base dwarfed by the stone structure it now adorned.

A bow. A farewell. A brief effort to recall exactly how many times he’d performed that very ritual and the difference from his first, barely dry-eyed attempt. Byakuya backed away and let his mind roam as his feet formed a narrow trail in the snow, through a copse of barren trees and over the gentle rise it guarded.

Here, on the crest of the ridge, he paused.

The meadow was an unbroken expanse of snow, smooth and still and blue in the bright moonlight. Eddies in the gentle breeze had formed shallow peaks and valleys, a new topography created over the flat plain underneath.

Byakuya exhaled slowly as if his breath would disturb the slumbering field, then shook his head at the fanciful notion. He stepped forward, the crunch of snow underfoot nearly deafening in the oppressive silence of the night. The footfalls soon faded from notice as he scanned the area, keen eyes fixing on the only right angles jutting up through the organic landscape.

Here he crouched, brushing snow from the face of the small obelisk. The noble murmured an apology.

“I know you would prefer the snow, and not care if anyone can read the words.”

He needed to see them, though; running his cool fingers over the even colder granite and the characters etched into the rock, relieved at the permanence implied. Byakuya left the remaining sides of the marker untouched in deference to his late wife’s wishes, the contrast of ivory and the nearly-black rock dazzling his eyes in the low light.

“Rukia has grown into a strong and spirited young woman. You would have enjoyed the display when she was informed of her promotion to lieutenant; I have never seen her eyes so wide, or such an unbridled smile. I believe she is truly happy now.”

He went on, describing her hauntingly beautiful zanpakutou and her iron-clad determination to guard the dingy Kurosaki boy…at a distance.

“I am so very proud of her, Hisana.” _I need her far more than she needs me, which would not have surprised you at all, I think._

Byakuya retrieved a pale green glass jar, settling the round bottom into the powder along the marker’s base. He deposited a bouquet of dried bellflower and foxglove within, the delicate dried stems fanning out along the lip with muted _clinks._ Blinking at the brown, green, blue and pink island in the sea of white, he touched the headstone one last time as he stood.

“I thank you, again, for my sister,” he whispered. “Be at peace.”

In years past his journey would have ended there, a much longer monologue rolling off his tongue and heaviness in his heart. Her name had been too painful to speak aloud; he’d been reduced to private mourning, choking out a whispered plea to his ‘love’ in that deserted meadow on the outskirts of his property.   

Instead he pushed on, marring the virgin snow and moving away from his familial lands. An hour passed; the Kuchiki heir now chose every step carefully as prairie gave way to foothills and talus slopes, plant life growing scarce along the perimeter of the Seireitei. He leapt up from the scree, a single shunpo taking him over the massive wall and into the wilderness beyond.

Byakuya touched down in a remote, unnamed region of the Rukongai, pausing momentarily. He frowned at the silence, any pride he might have taken at evading Soul Society’s defenses quashed by how easily the barrier was breached.

_Mere months after the war and we turn a blind eye to trespassing? I will have to speak to the Head Captain...obliquely._ He slowed slightly, musing that self-incrimination might be preferable to suboptimal security if worded wisely.

Mulling over said conversation, he trudged along the pass that wound between the craggy peaks of the outer Rukongai, rocks and snow shifting with his efforts. It would have been faster to use shunpo…it would have been _much_ faster to use the North gate, following well-traveled roads through densely inhabited districts…which would have been beside the point.

The bitter bite of the wind, the part-numb, part-throbbing ache in his feet were as integral to the journey as the stations themselves, the corporal discomfort a welcome companion in his solitary endeavor.

By the time the first, distant villages came into view, most lights had been extinguished. Byakuya estimated it was shortly after midnight when he reached a small clearing, the torches from the odd tavern and teahouse twinkling in the valley below.

When his fukutaichou had taken him to that cliff for the first time, he did not press the younger man for his reasons. The noble had simply sat there, considering the small earthen mounds and the posts that rose from them, imagining the faces and laughter belonging to the children buried there. At the time, Byakuya hadn’t the words to express the depth of his gratitude that two of their comrades had escaped that fate, though he had since returned several times to try again.

He knelt, tucking his feet beneath him as he gathered his thoughts.

“Abarai Renji is the most determinedly tardy, obdurate, rash…” Byakuya paused, smiling despite himself, “loud, devoted… _delightful_ man I’ve ever met.”

Head bowed, his face burned as the words left his lips.

“He will be a taichou someday, when he masters his bankai and _if_ he actually studies for the exam.” The slender man chuckled softly at the thought. “Renji is a powerful shinigami, and a good friend to Rukia.”

_…Now that I am no longer the wedge driven between them. I do not understand why they have forgiven me, but I am grateful._

“I am indebted to you for the man he has become.”

He could speak no more, his throat grown tight with emotion. One gelid hand reached within the knapsack, prying apart the leather layers grown stiff with cold. He withdrew a satchel and poured the contents onto his palm, inspecting the birdseed before scattering it around the markers as Renji had done before him.

The humble offering and the future birdsong it promised concluded his speech, interrupting whatever brittle words were to follow. Byakuya stood to shake the powdery snow from his hakama, watching the arid wind erase his presence and disperse the millet and sunflower seeds further.

_As it should be; here, I am merely an interloper._

The rocky road that led to Inuzuri was wider and better maintained than the mountain pass, following a gentle grade through a dense, evergreen forest. As he descended, Byakuya felt mist brush his cloak, watched pine boughs sway with the heavy burden of wet snow. Distant stars and the bright, nearly full moon drew back behind a curtain of low-hanging clouds, the sky taking on a deep plum hue and the snow a hushed yellow-gray.

The sallow flicker of lanterns reached through the trees as they thinned and surrendered to the settlements, a frozen stream the last hurrah of nature before human souls staked their claim. The noble tread lightly here, catching hints of snores and drunken shouts echoing in the otherwise empty streets, the thick blanket of snow swallowing all other sounds. He hoped rather than believed that all of the residents of the 78th District slept indoors that night.

Byakuya turned right at the public fountain which stood dry and silent in the crossroads, following the avenue until it was whittled down to a mere footpath snaking through a fallow field. Of all his stops that night, this was the most recent destination; he honestly didn’t know if it was more or less neglected than the rest. He found the marker indirectly, following the tendril of smoke to its source behind a cluster of beech trees.

The oil lamp held a small flame, a miraculous act of defiance after the snowstorm. He then noticed the preponderance of footprints and the headstone already wiped clean, and revised his opinion. Settling into seiza in the already-disturbed snow, he blinked as he caught sight of an upended wooden crate; he lifted the edge with an outstretched finger and inspected the persimmon seedling underneath.

_Ah, good._

If he interpreted the evidence correctly, the empty sake box and the subtle kido fueling the fire were compliments of Matsumoto-fukutaichou and Kira-fukutaichou, respectively. The Kuchiki scion sighed softly and reached into his pack for the last time.

He brought out a dainty flask, grimacing [again] at the hideous, gaily colored foxes that danced over its ceramic surface. _Urahara’s grotesque aesthetics are exceeded only by his sense of humor._ After uncorking the cylinder Byakuya paused for a moment, tucking his hands into his sleeves and waiting for feeling to return to his fingertips.

“I am sure you would be slightly amused and greatly bored by this.”

Long, tapered fingers picked up the vessel and tipped it, pouring sake into the snow.

“A toast to your health, Ichimaru-taichou.”

He never visited this grave during the day, less from concern about appearances than about his questionable right to grieve for that particular soul. Ambivalence aside, he came often and spoke freely despite himself.

Byakuya watched the play of shadows over the marker and began to speak, of everything and nothing, of sundries that ought to have been beneath his notice as a noble and a Captain. It would have driven Gin to distraction to hear him drone on in that manner…which was probably why he did it.

The Sixth Division taichou had formed more words here in his first visit than he had shared with the Third Division’s captain in their entire acquaintance, he noted with detached interest. They were roughly the same age, with perhaps comparable talents- and there, Byakuya realized, the similarities ended. He had enjoyed every privilege and luxury afforded a prince of Seireitei; family and marriage among them, if only fleetingly. The noble could simply not fathom how different their fates had been, could not imagine living with the appellation of ‘traitor’ and forgoing any comfort in the narrow hope of defeating Aizen after dwelling in the shadow of his evil for decades.

“I did not expect to survive the war, Gin,” he said suddenly, startling himself. “I went to Hueco Mundo determined only to save my sister.”

“I suspect you had the same thing in mind when you finally confronted him _._ Did you know that you succeeded? Were it not for their feelings for you, neither Kira nor Matsumoto fukutaichou would have survived or grown strong so quickly.”

Byakuya paused again, staring at his tekkou-clad hands intently.

“During the zanpakutou uprising, I began to wonder what your life had been like, abandoning everything to accomplish your goal.”

_We were only children, Gin. You stepped into the lion’s den willingly, and I threw tantrums like the spoiled brat that I was…that I am._

“I cannot apologize to you now, but…”

_I cannot make promises anymore, but…_

“I will not waste another second with self-pity or regret.”

_I will respect my parents’ memory though I cannot follow their example._

_I will cherish Rukia for being herself and let both of us live in the present._

_I will support Renji without steering him and will learn to follow as he learns to lead._

“I will carry your sacrifices with me and be prepared when my time comes.”

He allowed a single tear to join the libation already offered, chin momentarily dropping to his chest.

The wet snow soaked through his uniform this time, damp fabric clinging to the numb, reddened skin underneath. The noble brushed the flakes off anyway, straightening the knapsack and raising his hood as he considered the vase. He reached for it, then relented. _I could start a potato plant in it, come Spring._ The corner of his mouth twitched as he bowed again and regained the path, preparing himself for the chilly final leg of his journey.

Byakuya passed back in to Seireitei uneventfully, his limbs thawing somewhat as walked faster towards his estate. He was fatigued and distracted enough that he didn’t recognize the familiar reiatsu until it tickled his neck.

“Hey.”

The Sixth Division taichou startled badly but did not jump as an arm wrapped around his waist; he realized then it was warm, sake-laden breath and not spiritual pressure that was stirring the hair along his nape.

“Renji.” He simply couldn’t summon the admonition that the redhead deserved, so Byakuya let his head loll to the side instead. “Why are you here?”

“I was lookin’ for you,” the impertinent fukutaichou whispered before brushing his lips along the expanse of exposed throat.

“At this time of night?”

“Yeah, I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.” Renji leaned forward, their mouths meeting briefly before he quickly retreated.

Byakuya turned in his arms, taking in the bemused expression his lover wore.

“Sorry,” the younger man chuckled, “you usually fend me off right around now.”

When the noble remained silent, Renji relaxed his grip and reached for the slender shoulders to turn the other to face him. Cinnamon eyes raked over the unexpected outfit before widening.

“Oh.” The tattooed man bit his lips. “How are they?”

Inwardly, Byakuya reeled. Leave it to his lieutenant to defuse the tension so effectively.

“They have moved on, Renji.”

The redhead lifted a hand, letting his thumb trace along the delicate set of the other’s jaw.

“And you?”

“I am glad to be here with you,” Byakuya said softly, looking him directly in the eye.

Renji folded the shorter man in his arms again, embracing him tightly in the middle of the street.

“I’m really glad to hear you say that, Taichou. There was a time-”

“There was a time that I regretted being left behind, yes.”

_It feels odd to share such things with one who can hear them, Renji. When I speak to the dead, it is only for myself; though I cringe at the sound of my voice, these meager and stilted words are for you._

“That is no longer true.”

Renji released a ragged breath, nose delving deeper into sweetly scented raven hair.

“Thank heavens for that,” the younger man whispered. “Let’s go home, Byakuya.”

The noble simply nodded, voice failing again.

_I found my home…at last… here in your arms, Renji. As long as I draw breath, I will give thanks for you._  

Before they could cross the threshold of the barracks, or fully rejoice in the touch of warm mouths and generous hands, both men breathed a sigh of relief. Reiatsu mingling and tangled, bodies pressed together against the chill, they walked together into night.

  _Wherever this path may lead, we shall follow it, fearlessly, as one._

_Thank heavens, indeed._

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